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secret-captain-swan-blog · 3 years

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Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 94580/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10 // Ch 11 // Ch 12 // Ch 13 // Ch 14 // Ch 15 // Ch 16 // Ch 17

Read on: Ao3

Killian is reading in the garden when it starts to rain. It’s not a lot, just drops against the thin pages of his book. He’s nearly to the end of Jane Eyre now. He’s honestly ready to be done with the book. Where it had once been enthralling, it now seems tiresome. The pain of the loss of Alice lingers folded in it’s pages.

He’s wondering if he should seek some refuge from the rain, when he looks up to see Emma running across the field. She’s windswept, her hair falling loose from her ponytail. Yet she’s still beautiful, like a Romantic heroine, her dress sticking to her torso. He can tell there are tears in her eyes.

He rises to his feet, striding as quick as he can to her. They meet in the middle. He wraps her in his arms quickly. Something is wrong, he notices instantly, from the slump of her shoulders and the desperateness she clings to him with. Her hands knots in the back of his shirt, holding on to him.

“Emma, love?” He asks into her hair. “Whatever is wrong?”

It must be the statue, he thinks. It must have gotten into her head. He should not have left her there by herself. She had heavy emotions that he should have been there to help her with.

“Killian, I can’t,” she mumbles, her voice half delirious.

“Can’t what?” He prods, fear trickling through his body.

She sniffles and whispers again, “I can’t.”

It’s windy outside, the rain picking up, and he can’t hear her well.

“Come, love,” he says. “Let’s get you inside. It’s getting bad out here.”

She shakes her head against his chest, “No. I can’t.”

He rubs his hands up and down her arms. “You’re going to catch a cold, love. I want to hear what’s upset you, but some place a bit less damp and cold.”

“No, no,” she says. “We can’t go into the castle. I can’t deal with it.”

“Deal with what, Swan?” He asks, slipping his hands down her arms to take her hands in his. He raises them to his lips to kiss them softly. They are already freezing.

“They’re going to tell me that I’m the lost princess,” she whispers. “And I’m not ready for it.”

He tries to process what she is saying. She’s the lost princess. She’s not ready.

His mind flits through all the evidence that he’s been trying to not point out for so long. The uncanny resemblance between the girl in Killian’s memories and Emma herself. The name. The accent. The right history. The scar on her shoulder. Even the chin. Killian’s spent so long trying to get Emma to remember something. For the connection to hold. And maybe, just maybe this visit to the gardens triggered the very thing that Killian’s been dreaming of. Maybe, even after last night’s fight, she has finally had the epiphany that he knows, he’s certain, must be coming.

But maybe that’s not it? Killian doesn’t want to get his hopes up. Reality rushes through him. Maybe the Queen or Regina just think that Emma is the lost princess and they want her to go public about it for publicity. Maybe now they’re manipulating her, asking her to pose as the princess. For what? For Misthaven Morale?

He’s going to need more information. Emma’s given him such few words, but his mind is spinning with possibilities. He knows, he’s certain, that something fundamental, potentially something he’s yearned for, is changing right here and now.

He brushes his hand against her hair softly, like he would a timid animal. She curls into him more, shivering.

What she needs, he realizes, obviously isn’t to go back into the castle. She needs to talk and in more than one way, unfreeze.

“Come love,” he whispers into her hair.

He leads her out of the castle grounds, the statues and winter garden behind them. Looking back now, he’s uncertain why he thought it was a good idea to take her there when she was in a bizarre state from the night before. As they weave down the cobblestone, she sniffles now, looking a bit less anxious. He thanks the gods for that.

There is a little tea shop in the grey stone shops lining the road. Called “The Castle Gate Cafe,” it’s lace doily sort of place. The counter boasts an assortment of cakes. He situates Emma in a table that’s tucked into a bay window off to the side that overlooks a damp patch of garden.

As he orders an Americano, a cappuccino, and a slice of lemon lavender cake, he glances back at Emma. Her face is distant, as if her thoughts are in another world.

When he comes back to join her, he presses a cappuccinos into her hands. She closes her eyes and takes a sip, her shivering subsiding.

“Sorry,” she says, after another pensive sip. “I must have seemed crazy back there. Or pathetic.”

“Emma, love, you seem traumatized,” he tells her.

She swallows, “I think I am a little.”

He takes a bit of the lemon cake. It’s sweet and soothing. He puts a piece of it on a fork and passes it to Emma. She takes the bite and gives him a smile.

“I was really affected by what I saw in gardens. I felt so ashamed for scamming the queen. I honestly couldn’t take it anymore. I was like in a weird trance or something, I swear. I felt like an out of body feeling, I don’t know.”

He takes a bite of cake and nods at her to continue.

She rambles, ”So, I went into the castle and all of a sudden, Mary Margaret was there and I just had to tell her everything.”

Killian chokes on his cake, “Everything?”

“Yeah, about the opera and our old plan and everything,” Emma manages.

He frowns knowing this means risking her security in Mishaven, her trust with the Queen, and the possibility of her returning to the country- and to him. “What happened?”

“She didn’t care. Killian, it’s crazy. She said that it doesn’t make a difference. She loves me,” Emma admits.

He reaches out to take her hand. Killian knows how much this means to her- to get the Queen’s affection and approval, to be loved by a parental-type figure in the way she’s always yearned to be. He knows it because he’s wanted it too. That’s part of why he’s never taken Ruby’s Granny’s generosity for granted. He rubs his thumb against her palm, part of him so understands and is proud for Emma.

“That’s marvelous, Swan,” he says.

She takes another sip of cappuccino, before she presses her lips together, and looks up at him.

“But then all of a sudden, Prime Minister Mills walked in,” she tells him.

He lets an eyebrow lift in place of a question.

“And she said that she took DNA from us both, without either of us knowing,” Emma says.

Killian thinks back to the week before, the suspected break-in. Of course it wasn’t the hooded man, it was the Prime Minister.

“We’re related,” Emma tells him. “I’m Mary Margaret’s daughter.”

So he was right.

He’s been right all along. It’s her. Emma is the girl from his childhood. It was Emma who he used to play games with in the castle courtyard. It was Emma who he used to eat sweets with in the kitchens when the cook would make them an extra treat. It was Emma who he ran across the field with that dark night. It was Emma who saw his brother right before he died. It was Emma who was now his sovereign. Emma.

“You’re the lost princess,” Killian says.

He feels a weird bit of emotion well up in him, a feeling of completeness that now is crescendoing. The girl who disappeared that night has been found. The lost girl who never had a family has been welcomed home.

When Emma looks up at him and sees the emotion in his face, something changes in her too. Tears spring again to her eyes. He quickly moves from his seat to slide in the booth next to her. His arms wrap around her. His lips kiss her hair. He tries to hide his sniffles, but he can’t.

She wraps her arms back around him, burying her face in his chest.

“We found you, Emma,” he whispers. “You came home to us.”

She sniffles.

“Killian, I don’t know how to react to this,” she murmurs back. “You’re crying, Mary Margaret is crying. I don’t know how to feel. I don’t feel like a princess. I don’t feel like my life is changing. I still don’t remember anything. It’s not like a sudden dramatic flashback or anything. All of these people keep looking at me like I’m supposed to be crying, but I don’t even know.”

Killian tries to be attentive to her. He realizes that Emma isn’t experiencing this moment as he is. He needs to be there for her. Princess or not, Emma is his girlfriend. She needs him to support her through this emotionally cataclysmic moment.

“Don’t know what?” He asks, brushing another hand through her hair.

“How to be a princess? How to be a daughter? I’ve only ever been Emma Swan. I’ve only ever been lost or alone or fighting for myself. I just want to go back to Durham and write my thesis. I don’t want to learn how to curtsey or use dumb shrimp forks or whatever people do in those Hallmark lost princess movies.”

“I’m not quite sure what a Hallmark is,” Killian replies.

“It’s not important,” Emma says, sniffling and sighing. “It’s just. I’m not really sure I ever wanted this.”

“Emma, you have a family,” he says emphatically, tears still in his eyes. “You have a real life fairy tale. You weren’t reading Blanche Neige all these years to run away from that. Princess Emmaline Georgette Analise Charmant Blanchard Nolan, I promise this is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

She smiles and sniffles and nods, “Yeah, I think I know that. Maybe that’s what scares me the most.”

He hugs her tight.

“I still don’t know what to do,” Emma says. “I ran away from the Queen.”

“You ran away?” He laughs.

“Yeah, I didn’t know how to react and she was crying and I absolutely couldn’t be in that room another moment,” she says.

“Oh love. Oh Swan,” He says, amused. His voice is still ragged from tears. “I think we should go find your Mum now. She’ll be wanting to hug you too after all these years.”

They walk back into the castle. Emma has to fight against everything inside her that says to turn her back, head for the Misthaven airport, and take off for North Carolina. But Killian’s hand inside her own helps, a lot actually. She lets it ground her, stabilize her. He’s still looking at her with tears in his eyes that makes her uncomfortable, but she’s managing.

Queen Mary Margaret and Prime Minister Mills are standing in the foyer when they arrive. She realizes that everyone else is gone- the secretaries, the dignitaries and diplomats, or whoever else might be in the castle. It’s just them.

“Your Royal Highness,” Regina says, “I’m truly sorry for springing the news on you in an improper way. I apologize.”

Emma tucks some hair behind her ears. It’s still damp from the rain earlier, which has now turned into a gentle mist.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’m sorry for running away. It’s an old habit, I guess.”

“Emma,” the queen says finally, her voice choked up.

Mary Margaret takes a step forward, her lips pursed to hold back a sob.

Emma realizes that like it or not, this is her life now. She can keep running from it. Or she can embrace it. It doesn’t mean she needs to give up everything. Those details- her thesis, her livelihood, the dumb shrimp forks- they can be sorted out later. But right now, she’s just found out that this woman who has been nothing but a kind motherly figure to her these last few months is her actual real life mother. The least she can do is hug her.

She crosses the space and steps into her arms. It feels like melting, like comfort. Like a blanket wrapped around you on a cold day. Like turning the doorknob on your apartment door. Like a bowl sized cappuccino made just how she likes it. Like home. Mary Margaret, Killian, Misthaven- this was her home. She has a home. She is home.

“I’ve had a few assistants go out to get some Mamie’s coffee and croissants for you,” Mary Margaret says. “And we’ll call in some take away later for dinner.”

Emma doesn’t say that they just got coffee, because really, she always wants coffee. And it sounds, oh so cozy, to drink more coffee in this castle with the Queen. With her mom.

“I was thinking that I could give you a tour of the castle,” Mary Margaret says. “And then maybe, this is silly, but we’ve got these old home videos David used to take of you as a child. They’ve been too painful for me to ever watch, but maybe, since you’re here- we could watch them together.”

Emma smiles. She could do this. And maybe the home videos might even help her process and visualize and remember.

“That sounds great,” Emma tells her.

“I’ll just see you later then,” Killian whispers from behind her.

“No, no,” Mary Margaret says. “Please, Killian, you are family. Stay.”

Emma turns to smile at him and offer him her hand. “Stay.”

It’s late that night when they make it back to Emma’s apartment. After the long, harrowing, revelatory day, the clean white apartment and cozy house plants are the perfect greeting.

Emma is pretty sure she’s never been so tired. The rain and the emotions of the day have left her past drained. She leans on Killian as they walk in.

“Shower,” she mutters, as she stumbles towards the bathroom.

When Killian doesn’t follow immediately, she turns to him, “You too.”

He chuckles, before following her into the bathroom. She turns on the shower and cranks it up as high as it will go. That’s all she can think of right now- warm water and then a long sleep in her bed.

She strips off her clothes. Despite how tired she is, she glances behind her to see Killian’s expression. It’s something of admiration as he takes her in. She smirks and raises her eyebrows, before stepping in.

He’s inside the stream with her, sooner than she expects. The hot water alongside Killian’s arms wrapping around her lulls her and she feels the stress of the day leave her. She lets her eyes flutter closed as she leans back against his chest.

“What did you think of the evening with your mum?” He asks.

Emma smiles at the fact she has a mother. It’s a fact that is going to take a very long time to accept and set in, but for now she’s honoring her personal intention to embrace it.

“It was good,” Emma says.

“You know you can be honest with me,” Killian tells her, his hands moving to rub her shoulders. She realizes all the tensions she’s held in.

“No, I’m being honest,” she insists. “It was like having a family. A very rich, ridiculous family. But a genuine cozy little family.”

Killian nuzzles her hair, before moving to get her lavender aromatherapy body wash. He dabs it on a loofa and begins to rub it all over her.

“It was weird with those videos,” Emma murmurs.

She thinks back to the happy memory from less than an hour ago: of her, Killian, and Mary Margaret piled on a couch in one of the more comfortable lounges of the hilltop castle. They’d had takeaway pizza, which Emma could process now as a gesture from the Queen to be “chill” and let her ease her way into this.

They’d watched these videos of Emma with her family as a child. Baby Princess Emma waltzing with her father. Baby Princess Emma riding around on Prancer in the woods. Baby Princess Emma giggling as she plays tag with Killian down palace corridors. It’s weird to look at that little girl and know that it was her who did those things.

“I guess,” Emma says, as Killian switches from washing to shampooing, “I’ve been thinking for the last months, since I got here, that Princess Emma is this other person. A person who probably hates me for impersonating her. A person who is far more innocent than myself. A person who is probably dead.”

Killian starts rubbing shampoo into her hair and it’s fundamentally soothing. She lets out a soft sigh.

“It’s just weird to think that she’s me,” Emma says. “We are one in the same.”

She turns to face Killian and looks up at him. “You aren’t saying anything. I’m just monologuing here.”

He shakes his head as he runs his finger along the scar on her shoulder.

“I know, love,” He says softly. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve thought you were her this whole time. I know you don’t want to hear it.”

She takes his hand from her shoulder to bring it to her lips to kiss his palm.

“No, it’s fine,” Emma says. “As much as I wanted to deny it, I knew you had your suspicions the whole time. Even last night, you did. And in the end it doesn’t matter, because here we are anyway.”

Killian reaches behind her to turn off the water. He kisses her softly before opening the curtain. He passes her a towel and she wraps it around her shoulders, following him out of the bathroom.

She pulls on a Duke Writing Studio t-shirt and a pair of underwear, before toweling off her hair and crawling into bed. Killian is already there, arms ready to pull her close.

Her eyes flicker closed naturally and she sighs softly.

She supposes that is another good, but terrifying thing about this whole situation: every obstacle of distance that was between her and Killian has faded. Misthaven is her home now.

She knows that she has plenty of thoughts about that to fret over in the future. A tendril of fear and another of anticipation wind in her stomach, but for now the wave exhaustion crashes over and pulls her under.

The next morning, Emma tries to fall into her normal schedule. She needs routine and hard work to ground her. She always has. It’s a coping mechanism.

Killian is still sleeping when she wakes. She makes coffee in the French Press before heading to her desk overlooking the park. She pulls the soft grey blanket off the couch and wraps around herself, before opening up her thesis materials. She’s just a happy little Emma in her quaint, minimalist Misthaven apartment enjoying her coffee and working on her PhD.

She doesn’t know much about what the future holds, but it has to hold her dissertation. She’s spent so much time on it. She’s put in so much work. Looking at it now, she hopes that she won’t look ridiculous for writing her thesis on her own mother’s work or specializing in the literature from the country she is now sovereign of. But she thinks that if she can keep the Blanche Neige secret under wraps and she can probably pass off a decent thesis.

She smiles fondly at herself as she starts typing- she can be the first Princess with a PhD. She googles it just to fact check herself. Frowning, she realizes that a Japanese princess has already beat her to it.

A princess , she reminds herself. She’s still processing it. If she’s being honest, she’s probably at a sort of denial stage in the process because she’s feeling pretty chill about it. The shock of it has worn off, but she’s certain that the reality hasn’t set in yet either.

“How is my princess this morning?” A groggy voice asks from behind her.

She turns to see a disheveled Killian leaning against the door frame of her bedroom. He’s just in boxers and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

She purrs, “Come here.”

He walks behind her chair and loops his arms around her. She feels the scruff of his beard on her cheek as he leans down to give her a kiss.

She turns her head to kiss him on the lips, her hands cupping his face to pull him down to her. His body curves around hers to deepen the kiss and pull her close. She feels so soft and delicate, like she’s something so precious to him. She’s grown to like that feeling- like she matters.

Her arms lift to his shoulders and he uses his own arms to lift her. Her legs curl around his torso.

“Sorry about the coffee breath,” she whispers, self conscious.

“Dammit Emma,” He whispers, as he falls onto the couch.

She transitions perfectly into straddling him. Her hands dive into his gloriously disheveled hair. His head lowers to kiss her neck, then her collarbone, before he settles to lick at the base of her throat.

She hums in pleasure. All her thoughts, her worries, her cares are gone. All she can think of is Killian, the man she loves- and it’s bliss.

Then a phone's ringtone strikes the air and the spell is broken.

Emma stumbles off of him to head for her bedroom where her phone is lying on her bedside table.

“Hello,” she asks, not pausing to glance at the number.

“Emma, darling,” replies Mary Margaret.

Her mom. The queen. Blanche Neige. It’s almost dizzying.

“Oh hey,” Emma says, sitting on the side of her bed.

“I was wondering if you and Killian would like to join me and Regina for brunch,” she says. “We have a lot to go over- publicity, citizenship, castles, balls.”

Emma can hear a smile in her voice, but her own stomach churns. The denial phase is slowly slipping away into something else, some sort of reality setting in. She can’t have slow and silly mornings with her boyfriend because she has princess responsibilities.

But she feels, alongside of that, a weird sense of duty well up in her. Of course, she must be at this meeting. She can tell that just like the night before, the Queen is trying to make it easier for her. She isn’t throwing her into royal duties, just inviting her to a casual brunch.

“Yes, certainly,” Emma says. “We’ll be there.”

“It’ll be at my place,” Mary Margaret says. “The Summer Palace. I’ll send a car for you in about a half an hour. See you then!”

Killian pokes his head in and she explains the brunch meeting.

“I’ve actually got work this morning, love,” He explains. “I can skip it, for certain, darling, if you want. I don’t want you to go alone if you are nervous.”

Emma can’t believe she forgot that Killian has a life outside of her. But of course he does. She senses that everything for them is going to change very soon. “Publicity” the queen said. It may be one of the last times that Killian will get to work in peace, or work at all.

“It’s fine,” Emma says, rising to meet him and kissing his cheek. “Go to work, Killian.”

They launch into action, mutually displeased to leave behind their moment on the couch, but both busy with their plans. Emma changes into a pair of black jeans and a sweater, hoping that it’s a nice enough outfit for brunch with the Queen. Her hair, messy and tangled from sleeping it in wet, goes up into what she hopes suffices as an elegant top knot. A spritz of perfume, a bit of concealer and mascara, a peck on Killian’s lips- and she’s out the door to meet the car.

The Christmas decorations are up in their full glory when Emma arrives at the summer palace: fairy lights, garland, and wreaths of evergreen adoring the palace. She exits the car and is greeted by a doorman who informs her that the Prime Minister and Her Majesty are in the Forest Room. Emma nods and makes her way through the palace, trimmed with Christmas cheer, before finding the tea room.

“Emma, darling,” Mary Margaret says, crossing the room to envelop her in a hug.

Emma wants to resist, because that is her instinct. Flashes of Ingrid, of other foster parents flash through her mind. People she thought she could trust, but proved her wrong. It’s hard to believe that there is actually someone here who truly loves her and won’t leave. But it’s true. So she lets her mother hug her and lets herself relax into the hug. A part of her that has always been raw and ragged, now feels soothed.

“Did you sleep alright?” She asks.

Emma nods.

“Well there is fruit and patisserie on the sideboard, coffee and tea as well. If you prefer a hot breakfast, you can just order from one of the footmen,” The queen directs.

Not being fussy, Emma takes some strawberries and a pain au chocolat. She fills one of the dainty mugs with coffee and then joins Mary Margaret and Regina at the table.

“Shall we dive into it?” The Prime Minister asks. “We need to decide when to send out the press release. I’ve already had it drafted and you can review it if you please.”

She pushes Emma a piece of paper with the official Misthaven seal on it. Emma tries to skim it, but her mind is too all over the place to focus.

“I think it’s best to do it as soon as possible,” Regina informs her. “It would be disastrous if the information was leaked from someone else. Obviously there will be a lot of commotion about it at first. This is, afterall, a nearly impossible event to happen- lost princess finds her way home. So I expect that we’ll have a fair bit of international coverage. It’ll be best if you lay low during that time, avoiding reporters and the like. However, once it dies down, you should be fine. Misthaven is too small to have the insane paparazzi that English and Swedish royals face.”

Emma nods. The words paparazzi makes her squirm and want to run away. She thinks about the simple pleasure of drinking coffee at Mamies or sitting, editing her paper, in Killian’s pub. She wonders if she’ll ever get that pleasure again. Or at least how long she’ll have to wait to do that again.

“We’ll hire you security as well,” The queen adds. “At least until the hype dies down and even after, so we all know you are safe.”

Emma nods again. She wishes she brought a notebook to take notes.

“You’ll obviously move into the house in the Southern Valley,” the Queen tells her. “And we’ll have to make plans for the Christmas ball. It’s a bit last minute for a dress, but we can figure something out.”

Emma feels her forehead crinkle, all of it hitting her too fast to process.

“But, I’m leaving Misthaven next Thursday to be back in America for Christmas,” Emma says. “I already bought the ticket.”

The only way that Emma could buy the ticket was through her grant and fellowship. There was no way she could afford it on her own. She couldn’t just buy another one because she changed her mind about when she wanted to go back.

“What do you mean going back to America?” Regina asks, perplexed.

“To go back to Duke and finish my PhD,” Emma explains.

“Well clearly that isn’t important now, is it?” Regina says.

“What do you mean?” Emma says, startled. Her mind races with defensive thoughts. She can’t lose her thesis. “That’s everything. My life’s work.”

“Emma will finish her PhD,” Mary Margaret says. “Of course she will.”

Emma feels her pounding heart decelerate.

“It might be in your best interest, however,” the Queen says. “To take a semester off. See if you can take a small leave of absence. I’m sure it’s understandable, just so you have time to transition.”

Emma wants to say no. She wants to say that she spends Christmas with Belle and her father each year. She wants poinsettias in the green house and presents under the tree.

But then she thinks about waking up on Christmas morning with Killian beside her. A Christmas tree in her own house. Emma’s never even entertained the thought of having a house of her own before because it seemed too impossible. But now she’ll have one and a family of her own to spend Christmas with. Yes, she’ll have to stay. It seems silly now to have even thought otherwise.

“What about my flight home?” She asks. “I already bought it.”

“Don’t take it, obviously,” Regina says. “I’m not even sure why we are talking about this. You’ve just inherited a hundred million euros, I’m not quite sure why you’re hung up on this.”

Oh.

Emma tries to process a hundred million.

She thinks about stealing concealer from the drugstore because she couldn’t afford it and she wanted to cover up the bruises.

She thinks of eating a grilled cheese every other day and sleeping in the library.

She thinks of all the opportunities she said no to- studying abroad, nights at the theater, dinners out with professors- because she couldn’t afford it.

And now she has a hundred million euros.

Emma doesn’t realize she is crying until her fat tears fall into her coffee cup, a sob coming out of her chest.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret gasps, coming over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “My dear, what is it?”

Emma tries to breath and chokes on her breath, a hiccup forming.

“I’ve never had money like that,” she says. “Nothing close to that. I’ve always had to scrape and fight for scraps. I don’t know how to have this life now.”

Mary Margaret and Regina exchange a look and the Prime Minister leaves the room. The queen lowers herself down so that she meet Emma face to face.

“Emma,” the queen begins, rubbing her back as tears tumble from Emma’s eyes. “I am terribly sorry that you’ve lived a life you didn’t deserve. I’m so sorry that you’ve had to experience such horrible poverty and so much financial anxiety. I’m sorry for every moment you’ve been lonely. Every moment you’ve wondered where your mum was. I’m sorry that I couldn’t tuck you in at night and take you on nice holidays and buy you new books. I can’t begin to understand what your life has been like, but I can tell you it’s going to be better now.”

Emma sniffles and looks up at her.

“You’ll never want or fret about money. You’ll be able to help others with that money, make a difference in the world. You and Killian will be able to give your kids everything you didn’t have,” The queen says.

The queen beckons Emma into another hug and she obliges.

“You are going to have a good life now, Emma,” the Queen tells her.

Eventually Emma’s tears lull and Regina returns. They start to make plans for Emma’s move, which is to happen in two days. They take her measurements to send to the dressmaker for Emma’s dress for the ball, which will also double as her public debut. And they pass along a debit card for her new royal bank account. Regina advises she starts updating her wardrobe with pieces that are “couture” and informs her that once her move is finished, a stylist will come to help her look a bit more sophisticated.

The comment makes Emma want to roll her eyes, but she decides that isn’t very princess-like and resists.

It’s overwhelming and totally new. But Emma is trying, with all her might, to shove the walls down. If they come up now, she’ll only hurt Mary Margaret and Killian. She hasn’t worked this hard to turn on them.

As the driver takes her back down from the mountaintop palace, she leans her head against the window. She imagines herself turning into a tree, roots growing deep into the ground, branches reaching towards the sky. She tries to think of herself as being unmoved here, firm of purpose and place. Growing a home here in this place, here in Misthaven.

She has the driver drop her off at Mamie’s, where she gets a cappuccino and reads a book of fairy tales. Emma decides she needs to make the most of her last few days of anonymity. It starts to rain again, the weather decidedly cold now, Indian summer behind them. From Mamie’s, she can see Killian’s pub across the street and across the blustery street she can just make him out at the counter. She sends him a text telling him to come over when he finishes his shift.

As she flicks through her phone, she realizes she has a text from Belle.

Sorry to change our usual plans girl, but Will invited me to Misthaven for Christmas to meet his family. Any chance I can convince you to stay in Misthaven for Xmas as well?

Emma taps back.

Haha I just decided today to stay in Misthaven for Christmas too.

Emma smirks to herself and sips her cappuccino as she waits for a response.

Yes, amazing!! Can you stay with Killian then? Is it okay if Will and I take back his apartment?

Rolling her eyes, Emma replies:

In a huge plot twist, I’m actually getting my own place in Misthaven. I’ll explain more later on facetime when I am not at a coffee shop. Loooong story.

#Captain Swan #CS fic #CS fic rec #cs ff #cs ff au #cs modern au #killian jones #emma swan

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secret-captain-swan-blog · 4 years

Text

Castle on the Hill

Rating: T

Word Count: 94580/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 // Ch 9 // Ch 10 // Ch 11 // Ch 12 // Ch 13 // Ch 14 // Ch 15 // Ch 16

Read on: Ao3

“Are you ready to go love?” Killian asks. He’s in the kitchen, drying the last of the plates from dinner.

Emma peers her head out of the bedroom, a smile on her face.

“Almost, I just need shoes,” she says.

It’d been a week since Emma had made peace with the Queen. Killian is endlessly proud of her courage and wisdom. He knows for a fact that forgiveness isn’t easy. The fact that Emma was able to forgive the Queen so openly, well, he admires her for that.

It was earlier this week that Emma booked her flight home. Killian’s throat had caught as he looked at the date on the ticket- just a few days before Christmas. Less than two weeks away. He’s tried to imagine spending Christmas without this woman who had firmly planted herself in his life. The thought of Christmas with Ruby and Granny, which had previously been a comforting thought, now makes him feel empty.

It was from this anxiety that he’d suggested they take one last trip to the opera house together. Emma had admitted that she was uncomfortable asking the queen for tickets and Killian agreed. Instead, she’d gotten them from the international student center at the university. It was for a ballet and Killian thought it would be a nice goodbye to a place that had been part of their journey together.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as she walks out of the room a moment later with a smile on her face. She’s dressed in a knee-length black dress with long sleeves and a jeweled belt around her waist to accentuate her thin frame. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, curling over her shoulder. Killian’s eyes linger over her dark eyelashes and bright red lips.

“Do I look alright?” She whispers.

Killian swallows, thinking about how lovely she looks, and how little time they have.

“Wonderful, love,” He manages, before offering her his arm.

Emma grabs her purse, opens the door, and leans on him as they walk out of the apartment. The path to the tram from Emma’s apartment is second nature to Killian now, as is the signature way they board the tram- Emma first with her card and Killian with his leap.

With the change of season, it gets darker now. The tram ride is a blur of light against the dark backdrop of the night sky. Killian weaves his arm around Emma and pulls her close. He cherishes each tiny moment of closeness they get. He wants to feel her for every moment they have left.

They get off at “Opèra” and make their way up to the opera house. The seats aren’t in the private box this time, but among the other International Students in the balcony.

“Maybe we should have invested in opera glasses at this point,” Killian mutters, as he finds his seat. They are still velvet lined and comfortable.

“Nah, it’s nice to see the formations from here. Balcony is good for ballet,” Emma tells him. She glances down at her program. “It’s a guest performance by the Royal Ballet. I saw them do a different show in London. They were spectacular.”

Killian smiles at her, impressed that she’s become a ballet aficionado. Killian doesn’t even know what the show is. He reaches for Emma’s program.

“Anastasia?” He asks, looking at the font swirling on top of a grey background. It’s unfamiliar to him.

“Didn’t you even see the animated movie growing up? With Meg Ryan?” She replies.

He shakes his head after racking his brain and coming up with nothing.

“It was a classic at one of the group homes I was at,” Emma says. “I’d watch it all the time.”

“Is it about the Romanov girl?” He asks, thinking to a history class he had in England.

She nods. “Yeah, well, the movie is like completely fairy tale. It’s about an orphan who discovers that she’s Princess Anastasia and for some reason she’s in Paris and Rasputin wants to kill her. The songs are great. And there is like this cute, little singing bat.”

Killian laughs, trying to picture it. “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”

Emma nods, “Anyway, weird that there is a ballet about it.”

Killian flips through the program, looking for more information. Emma folds her hands on his shoulder and rests her chin on them, peering at it.

“But look, this ballet was made way before that kids’ movie,” she points out.

“What does that mean?”

But then the orchestra begins the overture and the lights dim. They both take their gaze from the program to the stage.

The first two acts are lively, full of pre-Revolution Imperial memories. It’s balls and family and ornate displays of royalty. It’s like the kind of vision that lives on the corners of Killian’s memory.

When the third act comes, everything changes. The ballet is now set in a mental hospital in Berlin. The girl who believes she’s Anastasia is dancing madly across the stage. Her steps are crude and wild. Killian shivers, gooseflesh appearing on his arms. She’s delusional. She’s mad. It’s terrifying.

Beside him, he notices Emma gripping the armrest of her chair, her eyes glassy and distant. He reaches out and strokes her arm, then cards his finger through a few strands of her hair. She glances at him, stirred by his touch. Her eyes are haunted and tired. He’d hoped that his touch would soothe her, but she looks so tense.

He tries to understand what could have provoked this. She’d seemed fine at the interval. Then a realization dawns on Killian: she could be remembering.

He’s kept his suspicion quiet for months, ever since Emma asked him not to mention it. He understands her request. No point getting your hopes up about something that might not ever happen.

But he still thinks she might be the real deal. A bit of his soul starts to soar as he thinks of it. For a moment, he lets himself imagine Emma remembering everything and discovering that she is in fact the Lost Princess. He imagines her being fitted for gowns and going to balls, looking brilliant as always. He imagines her moving into a castle, being taken care of properly for once in her life. He imagines her finishing out her PhD here, writing her dissertation while balancing her royal duties. He lets himself dream of her life being here in Misthaven, instead of oceans away on a continent he’s never been to. He likes the certainty of her in this fantasy and perhaps that is the true fantasy of it. A life where Emma is firmly beside him for good.

The final bows are taken and curtain drops. Emma reaches for his hand.

“Can we hurry out? I really need some air,” She tells him.

He nods, squeezing her hand and following her down the aisle. They don’t linger in the lobby. He follows Emma’s lead and they go right to the door.

Once they are in the cool winter air, he watches her take huge gulping breaths. He pulls her towards him into a hug. She doesn’t resist him and she rests her head on his shoulder. He realizes she’s shaking a bit.

“Are you okay, love?” He asks.

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not really.”

He doesn’t want to ask her, but the fantasy, the hope of epiphany, can’t leave his mind.

“Have you, erm, remembered anything that’s disturbed you?” He asks softly, letting his head drip down to speak into her ear.

She looks up at him, her forehead wrinkling, “What do you mean, remembered anything?”

He frowns, not knowing how to keep from her from realizing what he thought. Before he can explain, she makes the realization.

She draws away.

“Oh my god, Killian. You can’t still possibly think that I’m Princess Emma. That can’t be further from the truth and you know that as well as I.”

He grimaces, upset that he triggered this reaction in her.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, love,” He says, as Emma takes a few steps back. “I just saw your face and you looked so disturbed. I hoped, foolishly hoped, that it was because you were having some sort of lovely epiphany.”

“Well, I’m did and I’m not,” Emma retorts.

“So what is on your mind?” He asks.

“Let’s go sit by the river,” Emma says.

He knows she’s stalling some sort of conversation, but he follows her nonetheless. He’s pleased that Misthaven is having a small winter heat wave so that it’s tolerable to sit outside. They cross the love-lock bridge and sit along the quai, legs dangling over the water.

He thinks of their first night together at the opera, when they sat together in this same spot, sharing a bottle of champagne. That’s when he tried to kiss Emma for the first time and she shied away from his kiss. So much has changed since then. A wave of reassurance falls over him. If they can go from that embarrassing night to where they are now, they can surely overcome whatever is disturbing her now.

“I was just thinking about how that Anastasia, or I guess her name was Anna,” Emma says. “She had an excuse.”

“What do you mean an excuse?” Killian says.

“For what she was doing, all the pain she is causing,” Emma tells him.

“I don’t believe you’ve caused pain to anyone,” he says, perplexed. “If anything, you’ve made my life, the Queen’s life, much better.”

She shakes her head.

“I did have an epiphany during the show,” Emma says. “But not a good one.”

“Oh?” He questions, daring to reach out and stroke her hair again. She doesn’t draw away from his touch this time. He’s grateful for that.

“I was thinking about Alice,” she says. He can’t help but grimace at the name, a fresh wave of pain flooding over him. “And how disappointed you were that she wasn’t your daughter. You were so upset. I was too. It was like a true loss to realize that someone you thought was your daughter wasn’t.”

Killian nods, the grief still lingering in his bones.

“And I realized that it was exactly what we were doing to the queen,” Emma says. “We’re leading her on, celebrating our sabotage.”

Killian runs his hand down her back. “Emma, love, I don’t think that we’ve been trying to misinform her for a while. I think that she’s come to care for you regardless. Didn’t you say that she said that to you?”

“But it doesn’t matter if we’ve given up on it,” she protests. “That was our intention. We wanted to hurt her. We wanted to take advantage of her pain. We wanted to profit off of it.”

She looks up at him. “It’s despicable. I can’t imagine that we wanted to give that pain you went through to anyone else.”

“Oh Swan,” he says. “I know that was our intention, but can you accept that we’ve done more good than bad? You’ve made the queen so happy.”

“No, there’s no excuse,” Emma says sharply. “We aren’t crazy. We aren’t in a mental hospital, imagining that we are someone else. We were greedy. We were unable to see the Queen as a human person with emotions. It’s disgusting. I’m sorry I was a part of any of this.”

Killian frowns. “Sorry you’ve been with me?”

“No, no, Killian, never,” she says. “I just feel guilty.”

“I know,” he says.

He pulls her towards him. She rests her head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” she says softly.

He kisses her hair, “I love you too, darling.”

“What if we visited the Memorial Gardens tomorrow?” Emma asks.

“Of course, love. Your wish is my command.”

“I just feel like I need to make reparations with the real Princess Emma,” she says.

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” he teases. “But for now, let’s go home, shall we Swan?”

The cobblestone path curves up the hill, flanked by rows of houses. The architecture of the houses match the castle in a way. Emma thinks it’s nice. She’s never been in this part of Misthaven before. It’s on the Old Town side of the river, up the hill from the Opera House and Saint Anne’s.

The cobblestone path gives way to an elaborate iron archway made up of floral designs and patterns. A plaque against the wall next to it reads, “Misthaven Memorial Gardens.”

Emma swallows, thinking how bizarre it is that this path leads right to these gardens. It’s as if it’s always been leading her this way. It’s as if Misthaven itself in its fundamental architecture was leading her to these gardens. It’s funny then to think that she hasn’t been there yet. She’s been to art galleries and parks and mountainside hikes and to the opera house. Yet, she hasn’t been to the part of Misthaven that seems to truly lie at its heart. This place that has existed to capture and memorialize the pain of a nation. Emma’s engaged in that pain through stories, through personal testimonies, but she hasn’t let herself be fully immersed in it.

Until now. That’s why she’s here. She wants to feel it all. She wants to understand Princess Emma who was lost, who was murdered on this night. Maybe if she can make sense of it, she’ll stop feeling guilty for a crime she didn’t commit.

The gardens are wooded with the same lovely old trees that Emma noticed in their other forest walks and in the woods near the Du Bois house in Belgium. There isn’t any snow today, because of the unusually warm weather. Indian Summer is what Emma used to call it in America. She wonders if it has the same name here.

She reaches for Killian’s hand and leans on his shoulder. They walk through the forested path till they reach a clearing. It’s all neat gardens here, arranged in a European style with a long pool down the middle, flowering artfully arranged on either side.

“There is a walled garden over there,” Killian says, pointing. “And a bog garden over in that part. There is even a Japanese garden in that area. The Royal Family put it in while I lived there.”

Emma sighs. “I want to know more about that.”

“About what?” Killian asks.

“I want to know what it was like when you lived here. When you left here, that night. Can you tell me?” Her voice is small, soft.

He nods and tugs on her hand. They walk around the castle. Her eyes are drawn to the high ramparts, the swirling towers of the castle in the imposing grey stone. In this back part of the castle a long meadow stretches out, forming a grassy plane that gives way to the forest.

Killian beckons her to a bench. They sit.

“I don’t remember it perfectly,” he says softly. “I was very young.”

She nods, scooching over so that their legs touch. His arm wraps around her back. The other points up at a tower.

“Do you see that? It’s the princess’s tower,” he says. “We knew it was coming for weeks, that there was a threat to the kingdom, a barbarian rebellion brewing deep in the town. There were preparations made. The King and Queen worked out a plan with Liam to make sure the Princess could escape. They knew that their fates were likely fixed, but they wanted Emma to have her best chance to live.”

Emma looks at the tiny tower at the top of the castle, imagining inside a little girl’s bedroom.

Killian continues, “Liam was posted to Princess Emma’s room and stayed there day and night with her till the threat passed or came to fruition. I was ordered to stay there with her as well, so I’d have a chance to escape under Liam’s protection. Liam was to go to America with the girl to seek asylum there. I wasn’t allowed to go, there was worry that one more child would make the thing so risky.”

Emma nods, watching the story dance across Killian’s face.

“Gods, Emma, I wish I could forget that night. It’s haunted me my whole life. Sometimes I still dream about it.”

Regret seeps through her. She’s asked too much of him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t have to keep going. I didn’t know-“

He shakes his head, before reaching out to stroke her hair. “Emma, I want you to know all my stories. Even the hard ones. The haunting ones.”

She reaches out to run a thumb over his eyebrow, then along his jawline.

“That night there were gunshots in the castle that awoke us and everything was put into motion. Liam smashed the window, the beautiful stained glass one in the Princess’s room. He had this repelling kit that was already ready to go. He had me hold onto his back and put the Princess flush against his chest. We repelled down and it was terrifying. We didn’t know if there were snipers in the woods. If there were, I’d be the first shot. There were arrows, no guns. It’s hard to get weapons inside of Misthaven, so we think now that they only gave those to insurgents. Anyway, the arrows flickered by my head and I wondered if I was going to die.”

Emma can’t imagine a boy so young dealing with such a terrifying realization.

“When we were half way down, I heard the worst noise I’d ever heard. There was a gun shot, then a scream. I recognized as the Queen’s and I knew she’d been murdered. If she was dead, then surely so was the King. I remembered how kind they were, caring for me and Liam after everything we’d been through. They gave me a chance at an education, a chance to have a good home, to be well-fed even. And now they were gone.”

Emma gulps. She thinks of the woman she knows who is full of more compassion than she’s ever known. She suddenly sees a new side of Mary Margaret. The side that cared for Killian as a child. She might not be her mother, but she was something of that for Killian. Emma’s heart soars at the thought. She can picture Mary Margaret doting on a tiny Killian, reading him books and giving him bon bons.

“My brother told me to run when we reached the ground. He told me I’d be safe at my grans. He took off in one direction with the Princess and I went in another. I didn’t know that’d be the last time I’d see him. I thought that maybe one day he’d return to me. Or he’d call or send for me. There was nothing. I ran through those woods on my own, my heart thumping in my chest, wondering if I’d get caught, if I’d be found. But I wasn’t. I made it to my grans’ safely. She was surprised to see me. She wasn’t particularly nurturing, too old to be as grandma-like as I’d hoped, but she provided for me.”

Emma senses his story ending and leans her head against his shoulder.

“I’m shocked that the queen survived. I’m still upset, sometimes, that Liam didn’t. I used to lie in bed at night as a teenager, when I was in the young offender’s institution, and look at the ceiling and think about that scream. I used to be so angry at the Princess. She was off in America with my brother and here I was alone and betrayed. It’s sad now, I suppose. They both are dead. I was the one who was better off.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek. His arms wrap around her back and he pulls her to him.

She doesn’t realize that he’s teared up until he says in a choked-up voice, “You don’t know how much joy you’ve brought to my life, Emma. I was so sad. I was struggling for so long. And you’ve given me so much hope.”

“Oh Killian,” she replies. “You’ve given me so much too. I’m so grateful for you. Every day.”

There was a part of her that was fighting for so long; that was angry and walled up and hurt for so long. But Killian broke those walls down. Mary Margaret did too. Misthaven truly has been responsible for everything good in her life.

She wishes she could thank it. She wishes she could give something back to this place that has given everything to her.

Her eyes sweep across the field, as she imagines little Princess Emma running across it with Liam. It’s almost too real, too vivid before her eyes.

Where the field meets the forest, she sees something for a moment that she thinks is a figure. At first she shivers, thinking they’ve been watched this whole time. But the figure is too still to be real. There’s three figures.

Oh.

“Is that a statue over there?” She asks Killian.

He nods.

“Let’s go see it,” she says.

They walk across the field slowly, hand clasped tight. The field is dotted with wild flowers, beautiful in the bright light of Indian Summer, but for a moment she imagines them as arrows. She can see the scene of horror, almost too vividly, almost too real, like a ghost of trauma that existed here. It’s like pain dwells so deeply in this space that she can see it before her, as if she was there.

They read the statue. It’s brass, shiny, showing how new the pain is. This isn’t the kind of revolution that happened years ago, but one that floods the memory of everyone in this small country.

The statue is of a family, the Royal Family. She sees Mary Margaret at once. Her hair was longer then, wavy and young. She was so young.

And the King. Emma’s not thought much about the King, as if he was just a side character to this story, but she sees him now, kind-faced and noble. She wonders if he played little games with Princess Emma. She wonders if Mary Margaret loved him as fiercely as Emma herself loves Killian. Yes, she thinks, she must have.

Her eyes finally find the Princess. Emma can’t help but take a step closer. The small girl, with ringlets and a familiar tiara. With a lurch in her gut, Emma knows why it looks familiar. It’s the same she saw in the pawn shop where they met the hooded man in August. It couldn’t be… but she knows it could.

She follows the little girl’s features, her wide eyes, so full of curiosity and hope for the future. Emma fills with rage at everything taken from her, that future ripped away from the small girl.

Emma’s gaze finally lands on her chin. Without thinking, Emma lifts her hand to let her thumb rub over the tiny dip in her chin, just as Killian has done many times to Emma herself. They’ve all been right. They are the same.

It’s so silly, she thinks now, that they wanted to plan this giant con based on blond hair, an accent, and a dimpled chin. It only makes her feel more stupid, more guilty.

So guilty, in fact. It slams Emma in its enormity, tears springing unwillingly to her eyes. So much has been taken away from this family, from Queen Mary Margaret, and she was willing to continue that. Emma wanted to continue to hurt this woman who has been hurt more than anyone deserves in one lifetime.

Emma feels nauseous, dizzy. She can’t be here. She can’t be part of this. In even planning out the impersonation, she participated in this violence against Misthaven. She’s perpetrated the same crime that has been carelessly carried out by greedy girls, by violent men, by rebels who sought to hurt the country that has given her everything.

“Emma,” Killian asks, grasping her arm as she begins to sway. “Are you alright, love?”

She doesn’t want his companionship right now. She’s struggling for breath and the only thing that can free her is admission of the truth.

“I just need some space,” she says. “Do you mind if I walk a bit on my own? I need to clear my mind.”

“Yes, of course, Swan,” he says, dutiful as ever. “I’m going to read for a bit in the English gardens, just around the other side. Come find me when you need me.”

He presses a kiss to her cheek, as her eyes stay glued on the statue.

“Emma,” he whispers. “Look at me.”

She turns to him. He cups her face in his hands, his eyes sincere with concern.

“Don’t get lost in your thoughts, love. Don’t build higher walls.”

She tries to nod, but instead, he lurches forward to put a kiss on her lips. There is an edge of desperation to his lips, as if he is trying to keep her with him. As if he knows what’s on her mind and wants to keep her grounded, before chaos erupts. As if he knows they might only have now.

“I know,” she says, trying to give him a smile.

He squeezes her hand before he walks away.

Emma stays at the statue, her gaze meeting the Princess’s for a few moments as she watches Killian round the castle and out of sight. With her mind made up, she turns. She feels like she’s possessed by a force not of her own. It’s like her feet are willing her in the direction of castle, regardless of what her mind says is foolish or right.

She approaches from a side entrance. There are security guards there with metal detecting wands. They search her bag and let her enter. Inside, sits a desk with a receptionist. She’s struck by how tiny Misthaven is. If this was anywhere else, she wouldn’t even be able to get this far.

“Hi, I’m Emma Swan,” she says. “Is it possible I could speak with Prime Minister Mills? She knows who I am and I think she’d like to listen to me.”

The woman looks surprised, maybe at Emma’s accent or how forward she is, but she nods and picks up the phone. She speaks something in French for a few moments, before turning back to Emma.

“The Prime Minister will be down in a few moments,” she says.

Emma nods, trying to stay calm. She looks around what she thought was a lobby, but now she recognizes it as an entrance hall to a castle. There are twin tapestries on each wall, ornate gold cross hatching across the roof. A magnificent chandelier dangles in the middle of the ceiling.

She wanders closer to the wall, almost in a trance. She wants to reach out and touch the wall, feel the cold stone under her fingers. She feels like she’s lost in one of her old childhood dreams of castle corridors. She shivers as she pulls up the tendrils of memory from those dreams- being a Princess, waiting for someone to save her. She thinks again of social workers from her childhood. The ones who told her that her brain made up those stories, those dreams, to mask whatever truly horrible thing had happened to her as a child. She wonders if she and Princess Emma are akin in that way- having brunt trauma as a child. There’s that.

“Emma,” a voice interrupts.

She was expecting to hear the crisp tutting of, “Miss Swan,” from the Prime Minister. But instead, Emma turns to see the Queen. Her heart swoops.

“What are you doing here?” Mary Margaret asks.

Emma shakes her head, “I was looking to see the Prime Minister, but actually, you’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”

“Oh?” The Queen says.

“I think we should talk,” Emma says.

“Yes, okay,” Mary Margaret replies. “There is a quiet sitting room in the center of the castle. I’ll tell Prime Minister Mills to meet us there when she can. I was just visiting her earlier today and I know she’s quite busy with errands today. Poor dear, on a Saturday too.”

Emma doesn’t have words to form, so she simply nods. Her stomach feels queasy again and dizziness floats through her. God, her hand is shaking.

Emma knows what she has to say. She knows what she has to do.

She follows the Queen through the hallways, until they approach an insignificant looking door. The queen pushes the door and it leads to a small chamber. It’s a bizarre place, with octagon walls and only two doors- one of the floor and one at the top of a tall staircase that curves around the room.

“There are only two entrances,” the Queen explains. “One from the ground floor and one from the Royal Offices, which is now the Prime Minister’s office.”

“Oh,” Emma says, looking up.

An octagonal piece of stained glass covers the ceiling, filling the chamber with colored light everywhere.

“Shall we sit?” Mary Margaret asks. “I can ring for some tea if you wish.”

“No tea,” Emma says.

She feels weird being with the Queen not at her Summer Palace, or the Southern Palace. This space that feels so loaded with sad memories.

They sit in two armchairs in the room. There isn’t much in the chamber- an ornate rug, a fireplace, and a trunk being used a table. It’s so cramped in the small space, yet so much empty air hangs between them.

“I have to tell you everything,” Emma whispers.

“Tell me what, my dear?” The queen asks.

“I have to tell you about what we did, or tried to do,” Emma says.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mary Margaret reaches for Emma’s hand.

She pulls it away. “Killian and I. We befriended you under selfish pretenses, awful pretenses. And I feel wretched about it.”

Emma feels the tears returning, sticking in her throat. “I think I’ll feel awful about it till the day I die.”

The queen frowns and nods Emma to continue.

“We both were in need of money. I needed, and still need, to fund my last semester of graduate school. Killian’s always wanted to open a bookshop. We both had these dreams that needed funding. Killian was approached by a man who wanted to offer us money for me to impersonate the Lost Princess. We were both uncomfortable with the situation and said no,” Emma pauses to sniffle, to breath, to force the words out.

The Queen mistakes that for the end of her admission. “Thanks for telling me. You did the right thing.”

Emma shakes her head. “We didn’t. The more we thought about it, the more we realized that I am very similar to how the lost Princess, your daughter, might be. I have an American accent. I have blond hair, green eyes-“ Emma looks up at the queen, at the bits of her face that mirror her own. “I have your chin. We both knew that you might believe that I am your daughter. We sought out your friendship in hopes that we might profit off it. It was selfish and greedy. We celebrated each time that you thought I might be your daughter.”

“Oh,” Mary Margaret breathes. Her face is disappointed, as she should be.

“We kind of gave up on it over time. I think I realized that my friendship with you was enough. That I didn’t need to convince you to think I am your daughter for you to treat me with that same care. But if I really knew better, I’d have told you up front about our plan. I still deceived you.”

The queen swallows and frowns.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says, burning with shame. “I’m sorry that it took me so long to tell you. I’m sorry I got mad at you for keeping secrets when I was keeping secrets of my own.”

“What makes you tell me now?” The queen says.

“Ever since Killian found out that the child, Alice, wasn’t his, I’ve been realizing something” Emma murmurs. She realizes that there are tears on her face. “That same pain that Killian was going through, it was exactly what had happened to you time and time again. You’d gotten your hopes up. You thought you’d found a family, but you just were being tricked. And I was doing that to you too.”

There is a moment of silence between them, tension waivers in the air. Emma waits for her admonishment. Or a prison sentence. Or whatever she feels she need to tell Emma.

But Emma is free now. The guilt that has clung to her grossly, sticking behind her knees, making her scratchy, is gone now. She wipes away the tears that linger the creases of her eyes. Whatever comes, she said what she needed to.

“I’m leaving in just a few weeks or so,” Emma says. “But I can leave sooner. Or if there is some other punishment, whatever it is. I’m sorry.”

The Queen’s assembles her visage, before closing her eyes and sighing.

“Emma, this isn’t your fault,” Mary Margaret tells her.

“But-” Emma starts, looking at her hands. She twists them awkwardly, too ashamed to look at the queen.

“I told you months ago. You are valuable to me. You matter to me,” The queen says. “I didn’t say that to you because I thought you were my daughter.”

Emma looks up.

“I said it because you are my friend, my mentee,” the queen said. “I do admit, I got my hopes up at first that maybe you were her. I wanted to share things I loved about her with you. I wanted you to fill her void. But that day, when Regina found us when we were riding, I realized that I cared about you Emma Swan, not Princess Emma. I connected with you. With the girls that came before you, they were fake in their interests. They weren’t lovers of literature, like you are. They didn’t care about opera or tea or intelligent conversation. You’re different, Emma. You’re authentic.”

The queen’s speech makes her feel dizzy. She doesn’t know if she should fall into her arms and together share a soulful cry, hearts joined in a combined lost-and-found reunion. Another part of Emma, the part of her that is instinctual and conditioned from a lifetime of loneliness, just wants to start running.

Before Emma’s internal conflict can come to fruition, a voice interrupts them.

“Your majesty, your highness,” A voice says from above.

Both of their heads turn to take in Prime Minister Mills walking down the stairs.

“Prime Minister,” Emma says.

“Regina,” Mary Margaret echoes.

“I thought I’d interrupt,” Regina says, midway down the staircase, “I hope you don’t mind. I heard you were looking for me, Miss Swan, and I am in fact, looking for you as well.”

Emma turns to face where Regina has curved around the room on the stairs. Her stilettos beat out a staccato against the steps.

“Oh right, sorry to bother you Prime Minister,” she mumbles. “I heard you are very busy today.”

“No, you were one of the people I needed to see today, so honestly it’s perfect timing,” Regina says, walking down the final curve. “I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, your Majesty, but I also believe that I am about to make an entrance at the perfect time as well.”

Emma and Mary Margaret exchange confused glances.

“This week, during our usual meeting, you mentioned that Emma had forgiven you and that you’d agreed to be friends again. As you both know, I’ve been concerned about your friendship for a while. While you both protested that there was no false hope between either of you, we both know that was a lie. You’ve both just said it yourself.”

Emma wants to protest, but she knows that the Prime Minister is right. They did just say it.

“So, I went ahead and did something a little wild. I hope you forgive me, but I am, in fact, Prime Minister. I had samples of DNA taken from each of your places of residence and tested. I must admit, I was a little impatient to get to the bottom of it and find out once and for all who this woman is.”

She gives a vague wave at Emma.

“The lab tests came back this morning. Emma Swan, Your Royal Highness, you are Her Majesty’s daughter.”

The news slams into Emma. She grips a table to steady herself as the world seems to move around her.

She’s the lost princess? She’s Princess Emma?

But she can’t be. It must be a joke. A prank. It must be some sort of “get this little orphan’s hopes up and then crush them.” Because she can’t actually be the kind of person that anyone cares about this much. She’s a fake. She’s an impersonator. She’s the kind of person who has had to work her whole life to every tiny thing. She can’t be a princess.

But yet, she looks up and Queen Mary Margaret’s eyes are full of love, tears rimming her eyes.

“Yes, of course, she is,” Mary Margaret whispers.

Emma tries to think of Mary Margaret as her mother. She tries to apply the word mom to the elegant queen before her. But all she can think about is how small the room is, how oppressive the walls feel, and trapped she feels. She knows she’s not trapped. She knows that she finally has a family, which is honestly what she’s wanted her whole life. But all she wants is to run.

“Sorry,” Emma says. “I just… I have to go.”

She doesn’t turn back to look at the shock on Mary Margaret or Regina’s face. She doesn’t try to process the tears in her own eyes or the fact that this lifelong instinct of running is kicking in. All she can think is that she has to get out.

Sorry for a long long delay on this chapter! Let me know if you read it so I can figure out if I should keep going on finishing it!

#Captain Swan #cs ff #cs ff au #CS modern AU #CS fic #emma swan #killian jones #cs crew #cs mafia #i honestly don't really remember what the tags are

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